Against the Red
by Shu of the Wind
Summary: Because being compared to a communist dictator is such a turn-on. Westana. Set mid-season 2. Oneshot.


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**Title: against the red  
****Author: shu of the wind  
****Story summary: Because being compared to a communist dictator is such a turn-on. Westana.  
Rating: T. Language and make-outs.**

**I enjoy Westana. Immensely. Also, I have to go hide now. 0.0 I have difficulty writing these sorts of scenes. **

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against the red  
by shu of the wind

"You suck." She tells him from the passenger side, not getting in the car, just leaning in through the window. Her black-and-gray-striped fedora is tilting on her head, close to toppling off. Wes wants to reach out and correct it, but he has the feeling that if he tries she'll bite his fingers off.

"Obviously."

Santana scowls at him.

"No, seriously. You _suck_."

"Mm-hm." He cocks an eyebrow at her. "If I could remind you -"

"Bitch, _no_!"

"- you're the one who started it."

"No, _you _started it. _You _started it with your - your stupid strawberry allergy and your communist glee club. This is all your fault."

"Is it now."

She sputters and it strikes him as adorable that she feels safe enough to sputter around him. Most of the time she's calm and collected and The Supreme Bitch. Talking to him she's scatter-brained and irritable and scrabbling for witty retorts. This is a strangely pleasing realization.

"How is this all my fault? It was all _your _idea." He realizes that arguing with her through the window of his car in the McKinley High parking lot with dozens of eager freshman staring in is perhaps not the brightest idea in the world, and unlocks the doors. "Get in."

"No!"

"Lopez." He gives her The Deadpan Look that sends minor Warblers scurrying to do his bidding. (_If I laugh maniacally she'll never let me hear the end of it._) "Get. In. The. Car."

"Zhou." Her eyes spark in a warning. "No. Way. In. Hell."

"Fine. I'll find somewhere to park. We can talk about this in the choir room."

"What! Hell no!"

"Then get in the car."

Santana glares at him.

He glares right back.

Finally, she gets in the car, crossing her arms over her chest and turning away from him as he reverses out of the lot. He's certain that she'll have to answer a dozen questions tomorrow, most of which under the order of _Why is a _Warbler_ picking you up from glee practice?_ but neither of them really care, no matter what kind of front Santana is putting on.

"You really suck." She tells him, once they are two blocks away from the school and she finally straightens her hat. "You're such a commie Nazi."

"You do realize that the two ideas are mutually exclusive."

Santana scoffs. "Of course. You can't be a communist _and_ a National Socialist."

"I'm glad that history tutoring has finally sunk in for you."

"_You_, on the other hand, are a commie Nazi _Mao_."

"…that makes absolutely no sense."

"You're the chairman of your glee committee! You're a communist and you're Chinese, so you're Chairman Mao."

"I actually never really realized how racist you are until this moment."

"I call the Berry Bitch _Yentl_. What the hell do you think I am if not racist?" Pleased with her one-ups-man-ship, Santana checks her nails absently. Wes frowns at her, but she ignores it, getting a nail file out from her purse and beginning to work on a rough edge. "So what's with the kidnap, Mao? I mean, not that I'm complaining, but at least give a girl a little warning before you whisk her off her feet, because if I'd known, I'd have worn sexier shoes."

For an instant, he wonders if she really forgot. The look on her face says maybe; she's too damn good at hiding her thoughts. "All right, Josefina - what do _you _think it's for?"

"Josefina?" She stops filing her nails and scowls. "_That's _the best you could come up with?"

"I think it's perfect."

"One shudders to ask why."

"Because you're a self admitted ho." He dodges the flung pair of nail-clippers and turns onto a side-street. "Watch it, Lopez. You could have broken something."

"You're an ass."

"No. I'm Chairman Mao. Because of my commie-Nazi glee-club, my strawberry allergy, and my Chinese-ness." He puts enough sarcasm in his voice to float a skeleton. "Satisfied?"

"Not really." There's a glint in her eyes that he's not sure he likes. "Pull over."

"Why? We're not even out of Lima yet."

"Just pull over, jackass." Her eyes suddenly go darker. "Like _now_."

He does.

The instant the car is in park - even before that, if the weight on his chest is any indication - Santana has leaned out of her seat and kissed him, and she tastes like the mixture of cinnamon and sugar that you put on snickerdoodles. Her hair is loose and hanging in his face as he takes off the hat and throws it on the backseat, and then she's out of her seat and draped over him and he's suddenly very thankful he picked the most secluded place possible to park because if a cop catches them then that would suck royally.

He's seen pictures of her in her cheerleader uniform, but he can't imagine her in them. He likes her current style too much. Besides: he's never really been that into cheerleaders.

She bites his lower lip and slides her tongue in his mouth for the barest of instants. Then her mouth is trailing down his jaw and he carefully keep his hands on her ribcage just below her breasts because he _knows_ she's ticklish there. "So was it something I said?"

"Shut up." Lips against his ear, and soft shocked laughter when he trails his finger along one of her ribs.

"Well, obviously I said something." She bites his earlobe and the hair goes up on the back of his neck. "Wouldn't happen to be the strawberry allergy, would it?"

"You talk too goddamn much." He can feel the smile on her mouth against his neck, though, and then she's pulled the lever on the side of the seat and it snaps back so fast he wonders if he has whiplash. He kisses her, and it's a tangle of teeth and tongue and pushing boundaries because Santana never does it any other way. "Seriously."

"Like you're one to talk." He tastes her skin. "It's the communism. I'm a dictator and you can't keep away from me."

"Just _shut up_."

He keeps quiet after that. There wasn't much he would have been able to say anyway.

"So what are we going to be late for again?" She asks finally, when he lets her pull back. She's panting, slightly disheveled, the top two buttons on her shirt are undone, and he wonders if her hat survived the journey to the backseat. And, for once, she's unguarded, and it's beautiful.

Wes leans up a little and kisses her again, not on the mouth but just next to it, and the way she twitches says that it worked. When he pulls back, he smirks at her. "I don't even really remember."

Santana grins back. "Let's skip it."

"I _knew_ the allergy would do it."

Rather than respond, she nips his collarbone hard enough for him to twitch. There's going to be a bruise there by morning.

"That hurt, Josefina."

"Shut up, Mao."


End file.
